


so this is love?

by lunardistance



Series: SH 30 Day Fic Meme [3]
Category: Sound Horizon
Genre: Attempted Murder, Child Abandonment, Filicide, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-16
Updated: 2017-05-16
Packaged: 2018-11-01 11:47:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10921191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunardistance/pseuds/lunardistance
Summary: the seventh time’s the charm.(day 3: write a short fanfiction featuring a character you love being killed.)





	so this is love?

The first time she died (legitimately, in the physical sense, for a length of time longer than the few hours it took for the dwarfs to return from the mines and attempt to revive her), it was because a piece of apple became stuck in her throat. She died of asphyxiation – the passage of air was cut off to and from her lungs, and without the required oxygen, the rest of her body functions had halted. It was not until much later that she discovered the apple was actually poisoned; all she could remember of it was that it smelled strangely of almonds.

The first time she died (not legitimately, not in the physical sense but in a way that would go beyond the corporeal, for a length of time that would last her the rest of her life, even after multiple revivals), it was because her mother left her. They told her she went somewhere far away; somewhere up in the sky where she could follow someday. To a young girl who adored her mother beyond what a child’s limited reach of arms could ever express, the thought of such a loved one departing and leaving her behind was unthinkable. She built up her own memories, illusions of an everlasting love, and held her mother’s memory high above anything else.

The second time she died was when her father—

She doesn’t like to think of that. She’s never liked seconds, anyway.

The third time she died—it would have been at the huntsman’s hands, but she knew he could never kill her like the others did—it was at her stepmother’s hands. And the fourth time, at that. Though perhaps she can count them as one time altogether – perhaps her stepmother killed her the moment she tried to reach out to her only to be buffeted away in favor of a looking glass, and again when she saw her not as the stepdaughter, not even someone to be ignored, but someone to be eliminated. (What is better, after all: to exist as if one does not matter, or to finally be viewed of some worth only to be pursued to death?)

The fifth time she died, it was at her Prince’s hands. Oh, how she had thought the world of him, salvation on a silver steed, the first thing she awakened to after what she had thought to be her eternal sleep. And yet no matter how hard she tried to delude herself (she was an expert at it by then, having spun illusions for herself ever since her mother died), it is infinitely harder to convince yourself of someone’s love when that person is still around to refute it. Perhaps not by speech because not even he would dare test the sacred vow of matrimony with spoken words, but in covert actions. It was in the little things like occupying himself with meetings and matters of the country to avoid spending meals with her, and making arrangements for separate bedchambers on the very eve of their wedding.

She is not a fool. Princesses are simply not raised to be such.

Five deaths of her soul and one of her body, all by people that should have never even thought of harming her. Death at the huntsman’s hand would not have been as painful as the others. Why is it that the people you love most are often the ones that hurt you as intensely?

Looking glass, looking glass, what do you see? Does your image reflect someone who has learned to love herself? A riddle for you, then: can a girl who has never known love learn it on her own?

(Ah, but that is simply your imagination.)

Among her stepmother’s ashes, only three things remained: the crown, the shoes, and a small vial with a clear liquid that smelled of almonds.

It is not hard to bake a pie, nor is it particularly difficult to order the cooks to leave the kitchen while she works. Apple pie, once her favorite, only with a secret ingredient. She takes a slice for herself, cuts a part neatly with a fork, and raises it in toast to the castle cat that has come to sniff curiously at the rest of the pie.

The piece tastes of—


End file.
